Not Death, but Love
by Ocean of Dawn
Summary: John is trying to deal with Sherlock's death and during which John stumbles upon a book of sonnets written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Slash. Post-Reichenbach and John not knowing Sherlock is still alive -Minor Editing Done-


Disclaimer: I lament the fact that I don't own Sherlock or the sonnet used in this fic.

Title: Not Death, but Love

Summary: John is trying to deal with Sherlock's death and during which John stumbles upon a book of sonnets written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Slash.

It took a day for Sherlock to cure John's psychosomatic limp, but it took John nearly five months to drag himself to Sherlock's grave to lay a box of nicotine patches. _Cold turkey, they had agreed. _The coldness of Sherlock's headstone travelled from the tips of his fingers to his entire being as he stood there, body half-bent, hand outstretched to touch and trace the monument that signified his friend's departure.

The tears did not come that day. It took John another three months to be able to speak before the unanimated, dreadful, final reminder of his best friend. He had begged for a miracle to happen. It was foolish of him and his leg had started to hurt again. The pain accompanied by a limp that had become unfamiliar came and went sporadically like an unwanted guest as he tried to manage surviving. Nightmares were common occurrences.

John was back to where he started. Broken and lost. Alone in London. There would never be another Sherlock Holmes in his life. There would never be another person who could inspire meaning in his life like Sherlock Holmes could. When Sherlock took the plunge, he had taken with him a part of John, and for the loss of his friend and what the man had taken from him, John could not foresee an end to his mourning.

It was ten months after living alone in 221B Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson suggested that John should find another flat. She took his hand in hers and squeezed.

"It's time, John."

John shook his head and gave her a small smile. His intention was to reassure but judging from the increasingly bothered look on her face, he must have failed. "I can manage the rent."

"John, oh, my boy Johnny. You know that's not why." She let go of his hand and started to fumble around for cups and teabags. It hadn't escaped John when she surreptitiously wipe at the corner of one eye with her thumb as she turned around rather hurriedly.

"I found a new job," said John flatly. It was the truth and the least stupid thing he could say. Not running around London chasing criminals had enabled him to get a better paid job at a bigger hospital. Demanding schedule and inhuman working hours guaranteed. It was godsend.

"I know about your new job. Do you want milk in your tea?" Mrs. Hudson still had her back turned on his him but he heard a rustle of tissue and discreet nose-blowing. Poor woman, but all he could manage was: "Yes, milk please. Thank you."

Then he didn't know what else to say. Mrs. Hudson had been wearing that hesitant look for quite a while. John knew she meant well but he had to let her down. She took her time making tea and the silence was gradually suffocating John. For the lack of a better distraction, he took a book from the stack that stood precariously on the table and began to leaf through.

It was a book of sonnets written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. He turned and started reading the first sonnet titled _I thought once how Theocritus had sung_.

He had a faint inkling of what the sonnet meant, perhaps a residue from some literature class he had attended when he was still a student, or he might have known it from a former girlfriend. He had a few of those who were into poetry and often included poetry-appreciation in their date, but he couldn't remember a time when he felt so overwhelmed by simply reading poetry. The last two lines of the sonnet practically knocked the breath out of him.

_'Guess now who holds thee?' - 'Death,' I said. But, there,_

_The silver answer rang, - 'Not Death, but Love.'_

He could handle flowers and candle-light dinners but that was as far as his romantic side went. John Watson was never moved to tears by poetry but when Mrs. Hudson finally readied the tea and had once again turned around to face him, he was sobbing, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes, a futile attempt to stop the flow of tears.

It was pathetic, but even more pathetic was – John wasn't quite sure why the sonnet made him feel so broken.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder but said nothing, and they never mentioned this incident again or even talked about him finding a new place. She let the matter go just as how John was adamant of not analysing the sonnet more thoroughly or have someone explain it to him. He was certain Mrs. Hudson could do it; the book was dog-eared and old. She must have had it for a while and most likely knew the imagery and emotions each individual sonnet wished to inspire.

But that didn't stop him from reading that sonnet every time, over and over again whenever he stayed for dinner with Mrs. Hudson at her insistence because he was working too hard, forgetting to eat and looking too pale. He let her mother him.

It was another year before John started dating again. It didn't last long because he seemed 'preoccupied', at least that was how Samantha had gently pointed it out to him. She was a good woman, they parted on friendly terms.

Then, John couldn't be bothered anymore. Of course, he had friends, colleagues, both new and old. They went for drinks, coffee, dinners when he was not working long shifts. He was generally grateful that if they noticed his occasional limp, they didn't mention anything.

Another year had passed and by then John had the entire sonnet committed to memory, though not fully comprehending its meaning.

_I thought once how Theocritus had sung_

_Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,_

_Who each one in a gracious hand appears_

_To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:_

_And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,_

_I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,_

_The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,_

_Those of my own life, who by turns had flung_

_A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,_

_So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move_

_Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;_

_And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, -_

_'Guess now who holds thee?' - 'Death,' I said. But, there,_

_The silver answer rang, - 'Not Death, but Love.'_

One day when he came home from work, he found Mycroft and Lestrade waiting for him in his flat. Leaning slightly on his umbrella on one hand and he had a book in the other. After overcoming his initial surprise, John realised Mycroft was holding the book of sonnets that he had become very familiar with.

It was the copy belonging to Mrs. Hudson and John wasn't about to ask why, but he suddenly felt ill and he knew he would feel even worse if he didn't get Mycroft out of the flat immediately. Mycroft was quicker, before John could do anything the man began to speak as Lestrade made him sit down on the armchair, all the while keeping a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to keep still.

"You came back from the battlefields wounded and a different man. You lament what you lost, you limped and were depressed. Life had not been kind to you and you questioned the purpose and meaning of living. Then came my brother, Sherlock. For our benefit, I would liken him to the shadow which appears in this sonnet. When the two of you first got acquainted, you might have wondered, might have been wary of what Sherlock might bring to your life – dangers and excitement, yes. Then like what was being experienced by the late Mrs. Browning when she first regarded the man – the shadow - who would become her husband, she found that it was not despair or death that seized her but -"

Mycroft wasn't able to continue because John who had become increasingly agitated managed to shrug off Lestrade and had thrown at Mycroft whatever he could reach. It was a mug half filled with tea that had gone cold.

The shot was poorly aimed and the mug flew over Mycroft's shoulder but some of the tea got onto the obviously expensive suit. Lestrade muttered something under his breath and hurried over to check on Mycroft. He tried to remove Mycroft's suit jacket but the latter gave him a pat on the arm. The tea was cold after all. And the stains wouldn't show because the suit was of a dark colour.

So, John Watson was not apologizing. He was about to bring out his gun when the two unwanted visitors exchanged a look and gingerly made their way to the door. Mycroft did not bring the book with him; instead, he left it on the mantel next to the skull.

As soon as the door closed behind him, John fell back onto the armchair with his face hidden behind his palm.

_'Guess now who holds thee?' - 'Death,' I said. But, there,_

_The silver answer rang, - 'Not Death, but Love.'_

Love, it was love that seized her.

It was love that seized him.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

*END*

Author's note: I've been on and off for ten years and from my track record I can positively assure you that I can never guarantee sequels. I'm trying to make sure all my stories end as one-shots so as to be responsible and not keep my readers hanging (like how I did with my never finished WIPs, my sincerest apologies.

Actually I wanted to have Sherlock walk through the door at the end initially, but I changed my mind. It didn't fit with the melancholic mood of the story.

I wrote this story because I couldn't get the sonnet out of my head.


End file.
